“Oh, that is different,” pleaded her friend in mild despair, “those were only children’s stories.”
“To be able to tell stories to children, Nathalie, and to keep their attention,” spoke Mrs. Morrow, “shows ability, and if we have so gifted a Pioneer I think it is our due to hear from her.”
“And then, Nathalie,” urged Grace, “every Pioneer has to know how to tell stories, and this is a good time to make a beginning.”
“Well, I see I am doomed, notwithstanding my protests,” said the girl after a short pause. “I will try to tell one if you will let me put on my thinking-cap for a moment.” As permission was accorded to this request, Nathalie turned and glanced helplessly at the doctor, as if she might find inspiration in his merry eyes, Helen laughingly declared.
Nathalie blushed as the doctor shook his head and said, “No, hike-mate, I am at your service in everything but a story, for I ran dry when I told mine. Then I know you have nerve and brains enough to do your own thinking.”
“Oh, I know one!” the girl suddenly cried as her face lighted, and then closing her eyes for a moment, as if to invoke the aid of some unknown muse, she said, “I read it in a newspaper the other day. It is about a flower, but I will let you guess its name.”
“It was in the spring,” she continued slowly, “and old Peboan sat alone in his ragged tepee. His hair fell about his time-worn face like glistening icicles as he shivered in his fur robes; oh, so cold, so weak and hungry, for he had had no food for days. As he bent over to blow upon the smoldering embers that glowed at his feet, he besought the Great Spirit to come to his aid.
“As he thus prayed and lamented a handsome young girl stepped within the tent. Her eyes were as blue as the summer sky and were filled with a liquid light, while her golden hair floated gracefully with the wind. Her cheeks were like apple blossoms and her gown was made of sweet grasses and green leaves. In her arms she carried twigs of the pussy-willow. Going softly to the old man, she cried in a voice as sweet as the brook’s gentle flow, ‘Peboan, what can I do for thee?’
“The old man raised his head as he heard the maiden’s sweet voice, and as he saw her in her spring glory he cried bitterly, ‘I am hungry and cold. I have lost my power over nature, for the streams have refused to stand still for me. My mantle disappears from the earth as rapidly as I cover it, and the flowers are peeping from their brown beds, although I have bidden them sleep.’
“‘Peboan,’ replied the maiden, ‘I am Seguin, the summer manitou; the flowers are obeying me, for I have bidden them arise. The leaves are budding on the trees, the pussies are out in all their furry finery, for I, Seguin, now possess the earth. The snow and ice have disappeared, for they have obeyed my voice, and your power is gone. All nature pays me homage, for I am the Queen of the earth, the Goddess of spring!